“Dad is drunk.”

you say it again.

“Dad is drunk.”

D, what a harsh letter

for such a harsh sound.

“Dad is drunk.”

Words he cannot even 

say because 
he
is too drunk

and a liar.

“Dad is drunk.”

And every time 

you see that blue

or silver or red can,

every time you

see it you hear

its crunch in his

hand, his lips slurping

down the poison that

killed your family tree.

“Dad is drunk.”

Every time you say

those three words,

three words you

have heard far more

times in your

twenty-one years than

those other three words,

every time nothing changes.

“Dad is drunk.” Again.

What else is new?